


Convalescence

by Starrie_Wolf



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Missions Gone Wrong, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 17:17:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5214233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starrie_Wolf/pseuds/Starrie_Wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Intellectually, he knew, Phil wasn't dead. The evidence of that was right in front of him, the slow and steady rise and fall of his chest, the slight colour blooming in his cheeks.</p><p><i>But he could have been,</i> whispered a tiny voice at the back of Clint's mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Convalescence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sharpiesgal (TigerLily)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigerLily/gifts).



> Original prompt: Clint and Coulson recover from a difficult mission at a safe house that they only know about.

Clint bolted upright, a shout dying on his lips, his vision still awash in a sea of crimson. It took too long – far too long – for him to recognise his surroundings, to remember that he – that _they_ – were no longer unwilling guests in the hands of HYDRA, that no one knew where they were, that they were _safe_.

Phil. Where was Phil?

Sleep-clumsy fingers fumbled at the bedside table, Clint almost falling on his face in his haste. He must have fallen asleep in the chair, somehow, somewhere in-between sewing up the worst of their injuries and quadruple-checking that the safehouse was secure.

Phil was exactly where Clint had left him earlier, tucked into one side of the queen-sized bed that dominated the room. The little Clint could see of his face, underneath the mottled bruising, was still completely bleached of all colour, but at least his breath was no longer rattling in his lungs. Clint let out a long, slow breath, taking solace in the fact that he could clearly see the rise-and-fall of Phil’s chest, even when the other man was covered by the blanket pulled all the way up to his shoulders.

The mission had gone wrong almost from the start. There were eyes on them the moment they landed, like little jabbing pinpricks at the edge of Clint’s senses, and their contact was nowhere to be found. They’d retreated immediately, but it was too late; the entire area was already surrounded.

Their only saving grace was that their contact hadn’t actually known who Phil was, or their stay would probably have been even more pleasant than it had been. Phil had played the part of the typical administrative staff in _way_ over his head flawlessly, cringing against the wall in wide-eyed terror when they came to drag him out of the prison cell, and Clint had put on his best nonchalant mask just in case the HYDRA goons had some unprecedented bout of intelligence and decided to use them against each other.

It didn’t seem to matter much to those thugs that an office drone couldn’t possibly have any valuable information; Phil received the lion’s share of the beatings. Maybe someone higher up had felt Clint’s skills as a sniper were far too valuable to be risked on the off-chance that he could be persuaded to betray S.H.I.E.L.D.

Two nights ago, as usual, Phil was unceremoniously tossed into their shared cell after a typical physical intimidation session. He crawled sluggishly past Clint to his usual place beside the wall, where he spent the nights curled up and shivering. Clint kept his eyes averted, like he always did, lest he did something momentously idiotic. It therefore came as a complete surprise when Phil’s fingers – so swollen he could barely form a fist – brushed ever-so-lightly against Clint’s, and in that brief exchange Clint felt something small and metallic slip into his palm.

Clint got them out that very night, Phil gritting his teeth and never once complaining through the thirty-hour getaway dash involving six hot-wired cars, two safehouses, and an unlicensed plate vehicle they’d stored at one of the safehouses for this exact purpose.

By the time they’d reached their final destination, Phil was fading in and out of consciousness, and Clint winced at the scalding touch of his skin as he half-dragged Phil into the safehouse. He had never been so glad for their foresight to stock up the safehouses with medical supplies pilfered from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s most highly-guarded stores, because that experimental tech probably just saved Phil’s life.

Clint scrubbed a hand through his hair, and got up to do another inspection of the house.

* * *

Awareness came gradually to Phil, in disjointed bits and pieces, and his first thought was to wish he was still blissfully unconscious and unable to feel pain. There was a loud noise nearby, and instinctively his hand shot out to catch Clint’s wrist, even before his eyes opened fully. He frowned at the minute trembling. Something wasn’t right.

His eyes snapped open, and it took him several moments before he could relax his death-grip on Clint’s wrist – not that Clint looked very eager to pull away.

“Hey,” he said hoarsely.

Clint’s head bowed, and his lover took in a few deep breaths. “Hey yourself.”

Phil considered him for a few moments, sipping slowly on the glass of water by his bed. “Sitrep?” He could figure out the basics – that they were in a safehouse, and judging by the way Clint’s stubble was developing into a full-blown beard he’d been out for a few days – but the question was for Clint’s sake. Clint had always worked better with tangible goals, angles and windspeed and distances, and perhaps a reminder of what he’d already accomplished would serve to soothe that pervasive feeling of helplessness.

He listened as Clint recounted their escape – some of it, he vaguely remembered, as though it were half-forgotten snatches of a dream, but others were completely new to him. Had there really been a high-speed chase involving helicopters and armoured tanks through the Syberian countryside?

Clint paused slightly when he began listing Phil’s injuries, his voice losing the clinical, detached quality of a report. On impulse, Phil let his hand slip lower, such that he was now holding Clint’s hand instead of his wrist, and gave it a light squeeze. Clint breathed out, tremulously, and ended his report with a quick recap of the security measures currently in place.

“You did well,” Phil murmured, when it became clear that Clint had nothing more to say.

Clint huffed out a small sound, too strained to be termed a laugh, but the hunch in his shoulders was loosening. “I haven’t contacted anyone yet,” he admitted in a rush, as though expecting Phil to berate him.

Phil blinked, and then reached up to clasp Clint’s shoulder. “You don’t have a direct line to Director Fury’s personal mobile,” he reminded Clint, “and we don’t know what happened. If there’s a mole in the organisation, I’d rather not tip them off to the fact that we’re still alive.”

Clint nodded, slowly, and Phil took in the deep bags under his eyes, the faint lines of exhaustion written into his face, and squeezed Clint’s hand again.

“Take a bath with me? I don’t know how you can stand it, but I _reek_.”

* * *

It was odd, walking again on legs he could have sworn were broken, and Phil half-expected to fall any moment. His arm automatically came up to cradle his tender ribs, only to drop, confused, when nothing twinged in his chest. Best not to inquire too deeply as to what S.H.I.E.L.D.’s medical R&D division had come up with; Phil was just glad that it had worked.

Clint’s hand hovered at his elbow, and normally Phil would have raised an eyebrow at him, but not now. Not when Clint had just spent the past seventy hours sitting alone by Phil’s unconscious form, wondering if the cure had worked, if Phil was going to wake up, or if it was too late.

They made it to the bathroom, and Clint’s hands were gentle as they raked through Phil’s hair, smoothed down Phil’s bare chest. It was odd, Phil mused, to see unblemished skin where there should have been the imprint of a boot, and by the almost reverent way Clint was stroking the skin over his ribs, his lover knew that too.

Their eyes met.

Phil cupped the back of Clint’s head, and guided him in for a kiss.

Clint tensed up for a moment, and then melted into it with a grateful little sigh, practically crawling into Phil’s lap to be closer. Neither of them made any move to deepen the kiss, preferring to keep it more as an anchor of reassurance than a prelude to sex for the moment.

Soon, Phil knew, they’d have to go back out and face the world. The burner phone perched on the washbasin was already lighting up, no doubt with a response from Fury, but Phil didn’t need to check it to know Fury would have told them to stay put for the moment while he shook the organisation down to check for moles and sent in a team to clean up the HYDRA nest they’d inadvertently stirred up.

But for now, all they needed to concern themselves with was each other.


End file.
